


Tea & Whiskey

by thestarsjustblinkforus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsjustblinkforus/pseuds/thestarsjustblinkforus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He sometimes forgets that Enjolras should not be the physical measure for every man he knows because he throws everything out of wack. Enjolras shines so bright he tends to blow out the rest of the room. He leaves sunspots behind him that sometimes blot out everyone else… </i>
  <br/><i>But he can see right now, he can see Combeferre and Combeferre is really... He’s perfect in his own way. Beautiful in his own way. And he thinks he’d like to look at him some more like this, up close. He thinks he’d like to know his details, like the fact that there’s actually a little bit of red in his hair, and he has a freckle high on his right cheekbone, and his lower lip really is deliciously full and he feels weird at how not weird it is being attracted to Combeferre right now because it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if someone told him everyone is attracted to Combeferre especially when he smiles like this, like the right corner of his mouth curving up first and Grantaire’s eyes flicker away from it, feeling that flush make it’s way across his collarbone again...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea & Whiskey

  
He doesn’t usually do this. 

Well he  _does_.

But not like  _this_.

Not like howling up at his window in a completely deranged manner and certainly not all bloody with his eye so fucked up he can’t really see out of it.

No, usually he just pauses on his way home, stares up at his window like a creepster, thinks about ringing the bell but doesn’t and shuffles off down the street to his.

But he lost his keys in the scuffle.

And the light smattering of rain from earlier has turned into a torrential downpour and he doesn’t have a goddamn umbrella because he’s not  _Joly_  and doesn’t carry one around with him wherever he goes and it’s really fucking cold and his knee hurts so much worse than it did a block ago and

"ENJOLRAAAAAS!"

He screams into the night, fully expecting someone to chuck a shoe out the window at him at any moment. Preferably a red trainer. And preferably 

"ENJOLRAAAAAS!" 

unless he can’t actually  _hear_  him over the fucking rain.

Which is possible.

Because seriously, this is some  _End of Days_  shit, and the longer he stands out here the more likely he’s going to be hammered permanently into the pavement like a very scrawny, very ugly nail, or  _drown_  because

"LET ME THE FUCK IN I CAN’T SWIM!"

He looks around for something to throw himself when suddenly the curtains are shoved aside, the window slides up, and he sees Combeferre’s bedhead about three seconds before his face. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts what sounds like “I’ll buzz you in!” and Grantaire slips and slides his way to the door and sure enough  _sweet motherfucking relief_  he’s granted access.

He limps up the stairs and Combeferre is already at the door waiting with a large fluffy towel and an expression of extreme patience that cracks into horror when he gets a proper look at him.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

"Bar fight," he mutters and takes the pristine white towel but holds it away from himself uncertainly.

"I’m gonna get blood on this, Ferre…"

"Just get in here" he says taking it back and wrapping it tightly around him until he’s swaddled like a baby and can’t move his arms and Jesus this towel is fucking huge where do you even  _get_  towels like this… "We need to get you warmed up..."

Combeferre carefully guides him down the hallway and into the bathroom and his teeth are actually  _chattering_  which he’d laugh at ( _because,_   _really? Teeth really actually do that?)_ if Ferre didn’t look so concerned. He turns on the shower, throwing over his shoulder as he adjusts the temperature, "It's  _November_  - where the hell is your  _coat_?”

He’s about to answer when he catches his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He looks more like Quasimodo than ever with his eye puffed up like this, and he stares at himself grossly fascinated by his ugliness, a strange kind of  _satisfaction_  coming over him because this is exactly how he feels inside most of the fucking time, this mangled and hideous and his stomach twists and his throat feels tight and he got blood on the towel and its 2am and Combeferre had probably just managed to fall asleep before he busted in with all this bullshit because he remembers him saying just yesterday that every time he manages to get more than 4 hours of sleep it feels like a small victory and it looks like he's just fucked that right up for him and - 

"R?"

“Corinthe." He swallows the lump in his throat, swallows the "sorry" he wants to say but just can't because its not like this kind of thing isn't expected, and he doesn't want to draw attention to the fact that it  _shouldn't_  be because he can't change who he is and when it comes down to it he fucking lives in terror of the day they say they've had enough. At least this way if they think he doesn't give a shit anyway he can pretend like he has a shred of pride when he gets kicked out...

“Grantaire...”

He reluctantly turns to look Combeferre in the eye like he knows he wants, like he hasn’t quite been able to  _do_  yet, and he is looking back at him softly but not in a way that's making him feel embarrassed or stupid or judged and all of a sudden he’s forgetting to be defensive and he's wondering why it wasn't him he was yelling up at windows for since Combeferre is exactly the kind of person to be around when you feel awful because he makes everything better pretty much just by existing whereas Enjolras, even when he's being  _nice_ makes him feel like a shaken up bottle of soda ready to burst and spill all over the fucking place.

“Take off your clothes," Combeferre says after a moment, pulling the curtain shut to keep in the steam and he snorts at that, thinks about making a comment but decides he's just too fucking  _tired_  and drops the towel.

He tries to pull his shirt over his head, wincing as he does, and Combeferre is immediately there helping to ease it off. It lands in a soggy heap on the bathmat and he's really shivering now but Combeferre's hands are splayed out over his ribs, firm and sure, and he can feel himself getting a little warmer as he looks up at him from under a lock of sandy hair, his glasses half slid down his nose as he murmurs, “Tell me when it hurts…” and he presses, checks in, presses again. He hisses when he reaches his left side where he was kicked and Combeferre probes more gently, and softly, “I think it’s just bruised - nothing feels broken to me…” His fingers spider across his skin, pressure. Release. Pressure.

"Excellent," he croaks out as his own go to his belt and Combeferre takes his hands away, backs up to give him room and maybe  _leave_ , and he reaches out, clasps his shoulder.

"My knee is kind of fucked can you…"

"Ok."

"I need you for balance…" he explains.

"Ok."

He unbuttons his sodden jeans deciding not to be self-conscious about all this because it's just  _Ferre_ and he tries to shove them off his hips with one hand as he holds onto him with the other until they both realize that it’s not working _at all_  and Combeferre says, “lean against the wall” and gets down on his knees to pull the pants down with both hands. He tugs hard enough for Grantaire to stumble forward, one hand gripping his shoulder again and the other falling into his hair as he bites back another hiss of pain feeling like a fucking baby, because really the fight was put to a stop before it even got going. The kick to his knee was an afterthought, a glancing blow that just happened to knick him in the wrong place. The walking 12 blocks on it is probably what actually did it, proving once again there is nothing anyone can do to him that he can’t do worse to himself.

"These are fucking  _glued_  to you…” Combeferre mutters in apology as he tugs again and Grantaire takes his time taking his hand away from his hair because it’s really nice hair even if it isn’t all tumbly and gold and he has this sudden irrational urge to, like,  _pet_  him or something, which… he’s not even really all that drunk right now so  _where the fuck did that even come from_ …

He finally gets the jeans down around his ankles where he can step out of them, and he grunts as he bends his goddamn knee the wrong way and Combeferre’s hands are there immediately again feeling his muscles, his bones, and it's stupid, but he kind of likes it, being fussed over like this, being touched like this - kind of manhandled a little, but in a nice  _Combeferre_  way.

He sits back on his heels and looks up at him, his glasses fogging a little from the steam and he takes them off and wipes them on his shirt. "We’ve got an ace bandage we can wrap that with when you get out of the shower. The water should be fine on that cut, but we’re going to use some antiseptic when you’re done here...” He pushes his glasses back up on his nose and Grantaire’s pretty certain that’s the longest he’s ever seen him without them. No glasses and rampant bedhead makes him look about 12 years old and he can’t help but smile at the thought of 12 year old Combeferre and he frowns at him in question but continues, “I think I’ve got a bag of frozen peas for your eye that should help with the swelling...”

Grantaire nods and mock salutes and suddenly Combeferre is pulling his underwear off his hips while still looking up at him from the floor and a motherfucking  _lightening bolt_ zaps through his belly at that which is  _completely_  unexpected and  _ohmyGodstandupFerre_ ** _standupnow_**  and he does, still keeping his eyes on his, nonchalantly offering his arm as he steps out of the last bit of his clothes to limp towards the shower which is suddenly a bit more difficult because  _oh my God..._

He gets one leg shakily over the rim of the tub and then the other and Combeferre is totally unaffected by his complete and utter bare-assedness so he is determined to be completely unaffected as well but he can feel himself blushing, can feel it spreading across his collarbone and to the tips of his ears, but it’s just the steam, it’s totally just the steam because they have actual hot water in their apartment and how nice, what a  _luxury_ , he should get beat up more often. 

“I’m going to leave the door open. Just shout if you feel unsteady," he says as he pulls the curtain shut.

_Just shout if you feel unsteady._  

He feels unsteady. He feels really really unsteady.

He angles his back to the spray, keeps his face out of it’s path because it’s already making the cut on his cheek sting and his knee is fucking throbbing and  _think about_ ** _that_** … _Think about how pissed off you’re going to be when you’re stuck with a_ ** _limp_** _on top of everything else now…_  but he keeps flashing on Combeferre’s eyes instead. Eyes that he never actually realized were  _blue_  as well, but more cornflower than cerulean which really suits him and _those eyes staring up at him as he slides his underwear down and…_

He shoves his fist in his mouth and he prays to a God he stopped believing in years ago that he won’t hear him over the  _ssshhhh_  of excellent water pressure because he kind of can’t not, he kind of can’t  _not_...

-/-/-/-

He makes sure every trace of himself is gone before he turns off the water and he kind of can’t believe he just  _jacked off in their shower_  and then he starts wondering how many times  _they’ve_  jacked off in their shower and he’s willing to bet Enjolras’s number is lower than Combeferre’s because he’s so goddamn tense all the time, and  _nope, no, nope_  stop right there and get  _out_. He reaches past the curtain for another towel to wrap around himself and suddenly one is handed to him and he peeks around the curtain and Combeferre has a pile of clothes in his arms that he sets on the sink and he’s holding out a hand, looking away, because God knows modesty is important  _now_  after he’s been eye level with his junk and probably heard him grunting like farm animal. He holds the towel shut with one hand and takes Ferre’s with the other and  _ow, fuck_ , his  _fucking knee._ He stumbles a bit and Combeferre practically ends up lifting him the rest of the way out of the tub like a baby and he’s getting his shirt all wet, leaving transparent prints and Ferre mutters in his ear, “Christ, you’re heavy," and then, after a moment, “And loud...” 

And he doesn’t sound disgusted or pissed about it, just kind of amused so Grantaire snorts into his collarbone, mumbles against his damp shirt, “Sorry. Unexpected boner.”

Ferre shrugs and helps him steady himself, “Bravo for not falling over and giving yourself a concussion.”

He’s brought him some soft looking sweatpants that look nicer than anything he’s ever owned and he helps him get them on, the towel staying blessedly in place until his fingers need to tie the strings at his waist.

He eases himself into one of Ferre’s flannels trying not to disrupt his bruised left side and he looks up at him through the tangle of his wet hair as he buttons the buttons, “Are you sure nothing’s broken? Everything hurts like shit.”

“I promise. The limp is not permanent. Your rib isn’t cracked. The cut on your face isn’t even bleeding anymore.”

“Well now I feel like a wimp.”

“You still have a pretty nasty black eye,” he offers.

And he’s relieved the mirror is so fogged up because he kind of doesn’t want to see it again, doesn’t really want to think about what he must look like right now, and Ferre says, “Ok, couch” as he slings his arm around his shoulder which is incredibly awkward because Combeferre really is fucking tall, taller even than Enjolras, but he hunches a bit to make up for it and they make their way slowly into the living room, and really, he could walk on his own if he takes his time, but he finds himself not saying so.

On the coffee table two mugs of tea are waiting alongside a fucking delicious looking shot of whiskey. Grantaire lands on the couch with a huff and points at it looking up at Combeferre who’s more rumpled than he’s ever seen him, still with the bedhead which is kind of unspeakably adorable, like 12 year old Combeferre was unspeakably adorable, and says, “Is that for me?”

“Yes, it’s for you, but you can’t have it unless you talk. That’s the deal. Tea is free but whiskey’s gonna cost you… Put your leg up, we’re going to wrap it.”

He obediently hoists his leg up onto the coffee table and pulls up the loose pant leg, taking care not to fuck up his side again with moving too much and Combeferre gently touches it once more and really, he really does have nice fingers - long and strong looking. Capable. He drums them lightly on his skin, 

“You walked on this from the Corinth?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs as he unrolls the bandage, “I wish you’d have called… I would have come and gotten you…” He starts wrapping it around his knee and the pressure, the tightness, feels really good and Ferre asks, “Better?” and he hums a yes, because it actually is and Ferre squeezes his shoulder with a smile and gets up from the couch, heading to the kitchen.

Grantaire eyes the whiskey longingly but he’s back with a bag of frozen peas before he can actually make a grab for it, fucking slow as he is now that he’s an invalid, and Combeferre sits back down beside him. He looks at him for a long moment not saying anything and he looks right back thinking he really does have a good face now that he’s really looking at it. More angular than Enjolras’s, less sharp. Stubble dusting his jaw, matching the sandy blond of his hair that’s still kind of sticking up all over the place. Those cornflower blue eyes. Lower lip a little more full than Enjolras’s, Enjolras’s upper lip is...

And he shouldn’t be comparing them to each other. He sometimes forgets that Enjolras should not be the physical measure for every man he knows because he throws everything out of wack. Enjolras shines so bright he tends to blow out the rest of the room. He leaves sunspots behind him that sometimes blot out everyone else… 

But he can see right now, he can see Combeferre and Combeferre is really... He’s perfect in his own way. Beautiful in his own way. And he thinks he’d like to look at him some more like this, up close. He thinks he’d like to know his details, like the fact that there’s actually a little bit of red in his hair, and he has a freckle high on his right cheekbone, and his lower lip really is deliciously full and he feels weird at how not weird it is being attracted to Combeferre right now because it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if someone told him  _everyone_  is attracted to Combeferre especially when he smiles like this, like the right corner of his mouth curving up first and Grantaire’s eyes flicker away from it, feeling that flush make it’s way across his collarbone again and he says, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind,

“So where’s Apollo?”

And he kind of feels like it was the wrong thing to say because Combeferre’s silence sounds different for a minute before he says with a sigh,

“You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s not even remotely appropriate.”

“I beg to differ. Have you looked at him?”

“I look at him everyday.”

“Lucky.”

And it’s a conscious stepping back, what he’s doing. Because Enjolras is familiar,  _that_  yearning is familiar. He doesn’t need to develop a thing for someone who’s actually nice to him because then where the fuck would that lead him? And Combeferre’s not even into guys. So. 

Combeferre smiles and reaches out to his face, tilts his head gently to the side to take a better look at his eye and he lets him because he’s kind of discovering he has a weakness for Combeferre’s fingers, his let-me-see touches that are precise and focused and intimate without being intrusive.

“I’m going to put some ointment on that cut. It’s going to sting some,” he says taking a packet and a swab from the table, and Grantaire sucks in his breath as he applies it because  _no shit_ , but Combeferre doesn’t let him move. He cups his chin in one hand keeping him still, the other working quickly. When he’s done he smears some of the excess ointment away from his cheekbone, a light stroke of his thumb and Grantaire suddenly has a little bit of a lump in his throat because he can’t remember the last time he’s been touched so gently and his eyes are stinging a little and Combeferre sees because he sees everything and he does it again, just a simple stroke of his thumb delicately across his skin and Grantaire suddenly really really really wants to lean forward, to lean into it, into Combeferre, despite the fact that he knows it’s a bad idea, because he  _just fucking told himself it was a bad idea_ , but he thinks  _fuck it_ and starts to move anyway but pauses when Combeferre murmurs, “Tell me what happened tonight...” 

And then he leans back, he leans away, and Combeferre guides his head back against the back of the couch so he can sit the bag of peas on his swollen eye and he says after a moment, “I was drawing. Enjolras. It’s embarrassing but I can’t…  _he’s the only thing that comes out right_ … So, yeah. I was drawing. I was drawing all of him…. like….  _all_  all. And these guys saw and they made a fucking comment so I made a fucking comment and before I knew it we were outside and I probably would have been fine if there hadn’t been three of them but… Anyway, Hucheloup chased them off before it really got going but they got some good shots in and I lost my fucking keys and my book got ruined in the rain so I threw it away and I didn’t know where to go, and you guys are on my way home and… Yeah. So. Whiskey?”

“Yeah, you can have the whiskey,” Combeferre says quietly, and he takes away the peas as he hands him the glass. 

They sit in silence for a bit before Combeferre reaches out and pushes his damp hair off his forehead, his fingers running along his eyebrow.

“I’m sorry you lost your book.”

And there’s that lump again.

“I’m not. I need to stop.”

Combeferre doesn’t say anything to that. His hand is still in his hair, almost absently, like he’s forgotten about it, like this is something they  _do_ , and it’s really nice. Being touched like this, this… comfortableness, this  _easiness_ … it’s really fucking nice.

He likes Combeferre’s hands on him and he likes being in his clothes and he likes his hair that’s sort of floppy now because he hasn’t had it cut in a while and his wide rimmed glasses that are so hipster but not because Combeferre is only ever just himself and doesn’t fit into a box like that even if he does wear waistcoats over band t-shirts most of the time and he says, quietly,

“‘Ferre.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

And he doesn’t even look surprised by the request, his face doesn’t change at all, but he nods and he leans in so he won’t have to move too much. He waits a breath away from Grantaire’s lips, waits for him to complete the trajectory and he does because he really really wants to.

It’s soft, such a soft, incredibly gentle press of lips and Combeferre’s hands slide further into his hair, cupping his skull, his fingers moving even after they’ve drawn away just a little and he has his own hands on Combeferre’s chest and he can feel his heart beating under his palm and it’s pounding and  _he_  did that. Combeferre might be looking at him, calm and in control as always, but there’s a riot under his skin and he moves in twisting his knee to get closer and he bites back a cry because he knows he will stop all this if he thinks he’s in pain, so he pulls instead, he pulls him closer until he is practically on top of him, and the kisses aren’t soft anymore, they aren’t gentle and Combeferre is really good at this, really good with pressure and then no pressure, touching and then no touching and using tongue and then teeth, knowing when to suck, when to release and he’s having the same problem he had in the shower but isn’t embarrassed because he can feel Combeferre against him and this isn’t one-sided like every other  _thing_  he has ever felt like this toward someone, this isn’t Combeferre taking care of him, being kind to him because he needs it, this is Combeferre wanting, this is Combeferre taking, and he never would have thought, never could have anticipated the  _YES. THIS._  that is screaming through his brain right now…

And someone clears their throat.

And Combeferre is suddenly gone even though he’s right beside him.

And Enjolras is standing in the doorway with his keys in his hand and eyes wider than he’s ever seen them, cerulean blue, and Combeferre gets to his feet and Enjolras is shaking his head holding up his hands all,  _don’t mind me, carry on, carry on_ , and then his bedroom door is shutting and he feels like he’s going to be sick and he can’t look at Combeferre who he can feel looking at him but he can’t, he can’t and so he tries to get up, he tries to leave and Combeferre says, softly

“You can’t walk home on that knee - that’s what made it so bad in the first place. Besides it’s still raining. I’m getting you a blanket and a pillow and you’re staying.”

He doesn’t answer, just shifts until he’s laying down on the couch and he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what to do when Combeferre comes back and hands him a pillow, drapes a blanket kind of mock ceremoniously over him, trying to lighten this, trying to make this ok, but he can’t smile, he still can’t even look at him because he really feels like he’s going to die of embarrassment.

Combeferre pauses uncertainly and then, “Good night, Grantaire,” before he turns and makes his way to his bedroom, shutting the light off behind him.

He lasts about 5 minutes before he takes out his cell phone and texts.

**_i’m sorry._**

And he has never said “sorry” in his life, but for the first time in what feels like forever he  _needs_  to say it because he can’t say nothing this time, he can’t say to Combeferre,  _you should have expected this of me_ with his silence... because he doesn’t  _want_  Combeferre to expect this of him... 

He hears his phone buzz behind his closed door. A pause. And then

**_It’s fine._**

**_it’s rlly not_**

**_He doesn’t care, R._**

And that lands like a stone in his stomach because he knows he’s right. He knows he never has done, not the way he wants him to,  _has_  wanted him to…

And after a moment he decides not to let that hurt like it has for so long. Because he’s so  _tired_  of  _hurt_.

**_i liked it_**  he types after a moment, and then clarifies, ** _kissing you i liked it_**

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

And then

**_I liked it too._**

**_i didnt think u were into guys_**

**_I’m not._**

And he doesn’t know how to respond to tha-

**_But I’m into you._**

He flushes. A full body flush is happening and he feels too hot for sweatpants and flannel and blankets and he types with shaking hands yanking at least that last one  _off off off…_

**_shut the fuck up u r not_**

**_You want me to come out there and prove it to you?_ **

And that same screaming YES is sitting in his mouth and if he even  _breathes_  it’s going to come tumbling out and Combeferre’s door opens and he leans against the frame, a dark silhouette, and they look at each other across the room and he types, barely looking down at his phone,

**_i want to come in there_**

and the phone in Ferre’s hand lights up and illuminates his face and he really does have a fucking good face and a really fucking excellent bottom lip that he is biting right now, that  _he_  wants to be biting _right now_ and Combeferre shoves his phone in his back pocket and pushes himself off the doorframe, pelvis first and  _fuck…_

He reaches the couch just as Grantaire hoists himself up onto his elbows and Combeferre swoops down and catches his upturned face in his warm hands and he kisses him like he has never been kissed in his goddamn life and he’s being lifted like a fucking  _bride_  and he laughs into Combferre’s mouth “I thought you said I was heavy…”

“You are,” he huffs between kisses, between a sweep and tangle of their tongues. “I can handle it.”

And he carries him past Enjolras’s door and he doesn’t even look to see if his light is on because he doesn’t care, he really doesn’t care because  _holy fuck Combeferre…_

He eases him down gently onto the bed and they’re laughing into each others mouths and then panting and their fingers are unbuttoning, grasping pulling and Combeferre is hovering over him, stroking his cheek with his thumb like before avoiding the bruise, the cut just under his eye that he really wishes he could open all the way because he wants to look, he wants to see everything that’s happening, and then his hand is on his hip, his now naked hip, running down his thigh and just grazing the top of his knee where the bandage begins in question.

And Grantaire whispers, honestly, because he never lies to Combeferre, “ _Nothing_  hurts right now,”

And he whispers back “Good…” and he kisses him he kisses him he kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [ tumblr](http://thestarsjustblinkforus.tumblr.com/) :)


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